


machine of a man

by ashers_kiss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (but only if you squint), (kinda), (that's everything I can think of but please if you come across something else let me know!), Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Mild Sexual Content, References to Illness, Technology, minor Bucky Barnes/Howard Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technology's always changing.  So is Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	machine of a man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosaLui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaLui/gifts).



> For [rosalui](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaLui/pseuds/RosaLui)'s birthday, even though I'm like a day late. (It's still the 9th in the UK! ...Well. Not anymore, because AO3 threw a fit.) Happy (late) birthday, my darling! I don't even know what happened with this, but I hope you enjoy it. *squishes tight* (You really don't want to see the mess that were my attempts at Sirius fic. Just. No. We'll leave him to you in future.) ♥
> 
> Inspired mostly by the points made in [this post](http://rosalui.tumblr.com/post/120305065535/sebastianstanbear-waffilicious), in that Bucky is a total dork for science and technology, and my own feelings about the idea of Bucky and 21st Century technology. (Hint: I _love_ it. I love to see both him and Steve adapting easily, but I think Bucky will completely _immerse_ himself in it. He's had some exposure, after all.) I know nothing about technology though; I tried not to make that too obvious. First time writing from Bucky's pov, so be warned.
> 
> Warnings also for some passages dealing with what Bucky went through at Hydra's hands, in detail, Bucky's memories of that, and what it taught him to expect. Also people (mostly Hydra) talking about his arm like it isn't actually his. Hydra are assholes. (And some reference to sights common in the middle of WWII battlefields). If you feel like that's something you can't read, or need to know more about first, please, take what care you need to, and please feel free to contact me for details.
> 
> Title from [this is the story of (you) bucky barnes](http://dark-siren.tumblr.com/post/94246117121/this-is-the-story-of-you-bucky-barnes) by [wearealsoboats](http://wearealsoboats.tumblr.com/post/83858996638).

“See, these gears do the turning – ” Bucky digs his elbows into Steve’s thin mattress and holds the manual up to his face, pointing to the right diagram for him with his other hand. “Helps with the propulsion, ’pparently.”

Steve’s breath is hardly more than a rattle in his chest, even propped up on every pillow and cushion in the apartment, and some Bucky’s ma sent him over with, but he smiles and nods best he’s able. And Bucky knows he doesn’t care, not really, he’s got to be bored to _tears_ inside, but they’ve read all the books they both have – twice – and Mrs Rogers won’t be home for another couple of hours, and Bucky’s not leaving. He’s told Steve that already, he’s just going to have to listen to Bucky’s stupid voice go on and on. (Just as long as he stays awake, please, please God keep him awake.)

But Steve smiles, because he’s not got a voice to do much else and because he knows Bucky likes this stuff. Bucky shuffles closer on his knees and watches Steve’s face as he reads, _wills_ him to stay awake.

*

It’s almost coincidence he gets the job at the docks, really.

He’s always there, is the thing, when he’s not with Steve or his sisters or in school, watching. Trying not to get in the way. Sometimes he helps, even, when they let him, helps carry and pull and tries not to watch the boats fucking _glide_ through the water and think about everything keeping them afloat, not when he’s helping shift crates bigger than himself.

He’s sixteen when the gaffer offers him the job – after school only, he warns, “Got a big brain in that thick skull, Barnes, you ain’t wasting it here” – and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat, so much he can barely get his _“Yes”_ out.

It comes in handy, another wage, especially when Steve’s ma starts coughing and Becca gets herself accepted on a scholarship to one of the fancy schools in the city.

(If it also ends up being the place he first gets his hand down another guy’s pants, well, he figures that’s between him and God. And God hasn’t smote him down for it yet.)

*

It doesn’t matter that Stark’s car doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.

What matters is that for one glorious moment, it _works_ , and Bucky’s chest feels like it might explode.

*

“Fuckin’ piece of _shit_ ,” Dum Dum spits. He’s got one of the bum rifles, one of the ones they probably picked up from a corpse that used to be one of their own that’s been lying in mud for fuck knows how long. Bucky just holds out his hand, and Dum Dum doesn’t even argue. He’s smart, that guy, deep down under all the noise and the damn hat. Bucky’s pretty sure there’s a smile somewhere on his mouth as he gets the trigger working, but he’s too cold to tell.

Gabe hooks his chin over his knees. “How’d you get so good with mechanics, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugs, flexes his fingers to stave off the cold, and doesn’t think about pouring over the weapons manuals they gave him in Basic, just like he used to with Steve. He doesn’t think about Steve at all, if he can help it. Not in this place. “Just good with my hands, I guess.” He grins, waggles his eyebrows. It makes them laugh, which was kind of the point.

*

“The hell are you hanging about for, Barnes?” Stark snaps – not like he’s pissed, like he’s _distracted_ , and Bucky shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. He keeps himself loose, like he’s always been, because everything in him is itching and tight and yeah, he could use a distraction, too.

Steve looks up, smiles at him – Bucky has to blink, has to force himself to focus on the great fucking _lump_ Steve’s become, but it helps, because that smile’s never changed, still stupid and bright and soft all at once – and says, “Buck’s the one who dragged me along to your fair.”

“He’s not kidding about the dragging,” Bucky says, because he has to, he has to _push_ , and it tastes bitter in his mouth but at least Steve’s smile never falters.

Stark looks up then, and he doesn’t quite start, but it’s close. He looks Bucky up and down like it’s the first time he’s seen him, and Bucky lets his smile curve into something a little darker. “Huh,” Stark says. Then he’s pushing some papers across the table, saying, “Steve’s not the only one I’m building toys for, y’know,” and the twitching under Bucky’s skin settles, just for a little while, while the three of them go over the blueprints.

It’s a damn fine gun he ends up with, if he does say so.

*

“He’s been showing some…interest.”

“In what?”

“In his…in the arm.”

“…What.”

“Whenever we open it up! He just…he _stares_ at it. He watches what we’re doing, as if he…understands. Some of the others find it disturbing.”

“I see. …And do _you_ find it disturbing?”

“…Actually, I wonder if we shouldn’t perhaps…encourage it? It may be possible to teach him some self-maintenance – ”

“Are you insane? Herr Zola wants him kept close for a _reason_. If he didn’t have to come in for maintenance, do you honestly think we could find him again?”

“I – I had not considered – ”

“No, of course not. …If he has such an interest in the arm, transfer it to the ways he can _use_ the arm. Idiot.”

*

“How does it work?” Natalia asks. Her fingers are light on the arm, tracing the grooves of plating, but still, he feels them.

His throat sticks for a moment, and then, “I don’t know.” His voice is rusty even to his own ears.

Natalia doesn’t say all the things he thinks she should, things like, “It’s your _arm_. You _should_ know.” Things he only knows to think of because the voice in his head says them, righteous in its fury. (It hurts something in his chest, beyond the scarring, and he doesn’t know why. The voice only comes the longer he’s been awake; he has never heard another like it, and he has never told them about it, though he knows he should.) Natalia only nods, and when he looks up, her face is the careful blank they all praise her for.

But her eyes – they are not soft, but they _understand_. That, too, hurts.

*

Stark – Tony, _Tony_ , he reminds himself, otherwise his head aches and swims with another face and another underground workshop – talks. He talks a _lot_. Most of it is nonsense, babbling about everything and nothing, but Barnes can practically _taste_ his unease. It’s not fear, because there are two Iron Man suits alone in this lab, a gauntlet always to hand (he feels there should be some kind of joke in there; he feels like he would have known, once, what it was) and his very helpful, very _resourceful_ AI waiting his word.

Fear would mean the Winter Soldier was doing his job right. Barnes can’t quite explain how grateful he is that there is no fear.

In all honesty, Tony could rest easy – he barely has Barnes’ attention, only the bare minimum he would reserve for any other threat. (And Tony is a threat, despite Rogers’ – _Steve’s_ reassurance. Everyone, everything is a threat, has to be a threat, always.) Because Barnes doesn’t know where to look first.

The entire lab is full of – of _technology_. Of scrap and metal and _robots_ and thin sheets of glass that are still years beyond anything the Winter Soldier ever handled, images floating in the air that are beyond anything Bucky Barnes could ever have _imagined_ at the exhibition Barnes does not remember attending. He feels wide eyed and stupid and _amazed_.

Then Stark – _Tony_ settles a hand on his metal wrist and sets a screwdriver to the points he identified two days ago, and Barnes’ entire attention is focused. Focused on Tony Stark and the way the panels of his arm slide back, revealing an entire network of wires and circuits and lights that steal his breath straight from his lungs.

He flinches, and Tony lifts his head, and the hand with the screwdriver. “You okay there, Max Factor?” He sounds wary, as he _should_ , but not…not _angry_. Barnes has vivid memories of any interruptions resulting in curses and restraints (and pain, but the pain was – manageable. It was not the chair, he could handle it) and hazier recollections of impatient words.

He swallows. “What?” It still hurts to talk, sometimes, like his throat is unused to so much movement from his vocal chords. His voice sounds like bent nails in a rusty bucket sometimes, and he still doesn’t quite know where that came from or why he thought it in the first place, but it made Steve smile once, so it can’t be _wrong_.

Stark doesn’t hesitate. “Max Factor. The make-up? Because of the…thing.” He waves his hand in a vaguely circular motion around his face, and Barnes still has no idea what he’s talking about. It must show, because he shrugs. “We’ll hook you up later. You doin’ okay?”

There’s a whisper in his head, an echo, those words in Bucky Barnes’ voice, and the fleeting image of a smile, a rasping breath. He blinks. “My arm.”

“Yeah, we’ve been over this, remember? Like, yesterday? And the day before, and the day – look, I know your brain’s kinda like Swiss cheese right now – ”

“I remember,” Barnes cuts in, because he is missing a lot, but he remembers the signs of a Stark working themselves up to a rant. He twitches his fingers and watches lights flare inside his arm. “I mean.” He hesitates. Struggles. His mouth feels jumbled and full, and all of them the wrong words. _Spit it out, kid,_ and the woman’s shorter than him, older than him, but there’s an amused twist to her mouth he recognises from the Smithsonian footage and he cannot quite explain the rush of warmth in his chest.

Tony waits (even he can appreciate how rare the silence is), and Barnes eventually manages, “Do you understand it?” He looks up, and Stark’s eyes – a very different brown, he thinks – clear, soften, though not with pity. Barnes can’t put a word to this, like with most of Tony Stark, but he knows what it is not.

“Yeah,” Tony says, and he doesn’t sound so wary any more. Barnes wants to tell him that’s a mistake, but he can’t quite force those words out, too. “Yeah, I get it – I mean, it’s Hydra, they’re batshit insane on their best days, but I’m _me_ , there’s not much – yeah, I understand it,” he finishes, like he’s cutting _himself_ off, and Barnes appreciates it. His head is starting to feel full.

He takes a breath, and when he looks over to the glass door, there is a flash of red hair, and Natalia – Natasha, Natalia, _Nat_ – is perched on the step above Steve, who looks like he hasn’t left since Tony kicked him out, and there’s another of those warm, rushing feelings in his chest, smaller, but no weaker for it. “Show me,” he says to Tony. He gives his arm a little shake under Tony’s hand, just to emphasise his point.

Tony grins, ridiculous and huge, and Barnes thinks he feels his own mouth twitch in return. “Sure. That – that I can do.”

When Barnes looks over at the door again, halfway through Tony’s ramble about adamantium, Steve is beaming at him, just as bright as ever, and Natasha has her chin propped up in one hand, all but one curved corner of her mouth hidden.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what Bucky's arm is made out of, other than it's very likely not vibranium. I went with adamantium because it's the only other thing I could thing of that could withstand the shield, but please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!


End file.
